indie's momma

One Fine Sunday

2010-05-17T17:07:00.008+08:00

It was a good time for Indie to go around the UP academic oval in her motorized bike. Sun was setting. The summer heat was just dissipating.

After some time little Indie got bored with her slow moving vehicle. Jogging with her tita was obviously much faster so she abandoned her bike which her papa had no choice but to lug from one bad shoulder to another.
And while all this was going on, I busied myself playing photographer...

It's Claytime!

2010-05-14T23:25:00.005+08:00

Bad Day Reversal Technique

2010-04-13T21:28:00.003+08:00

Step 1. Look at the picture.

Step 2. Close your eyes and try to recall the day little Indie drew it for you.

Step 3. Open your eyes for another look.

Step 4. Smile.

Daily Dose of Yellow

2010-04-13T20:36:00.004+08:00

I have this need to express my yellowness on a daily basis. And Team Noynoy's the-filipino-is-worth-dying-for giveaway baller fits the bill. I always wear two for effect. They even go well with my retro Andy Warhol watch.

Paint the Town Yellow

2010-04-08T14:56:00.057+08:00

The place where I grew up, we found out without a tinge of surprise, was no Noynoy country. It was, in fact, green, ostentatiously so.

There, LP candidates were said to have yet to lay their hands on campaign materials that have anything to do with the national contest. There was no LP coordinator. To top it all, local kingpins were strongly allied with the ruling coalition, giving the color yellow very little room from which to spring forth.

So strong was the Lakas presence at the town plaza that it overpowered the humble monuments of both Rizal and Bonifacio. Noynoy was, of course, nowhere to be seen.

But we came prepared. From the city, we brought posters and stickers from a Noynoy volunteer and a few tarpaulins which we made from our own computers and which we had printed using our meager personal funds.

Our little yellow band—yes, we all wore yellow shirts on our first day—made the rounds of relatives' homes, putting up tarps on their gates with matching yellow ribbons.

Our house must have been the "yellowest" in town for there were people, some even strangers, who came to us asking for Noynoy campaign paraphernalia. They honestly thought we were official LP coordinators. Relatives called in behalf of friends who wanted tarps and ribbons to proudly display in their homes. We were on a roll.

As our resources were limited, we were soon running out of posters and tarps. So we resorted to yellow ribbons. We were actually afraid that townsfolk might not associate them with Noynoy but our fears were, it turned out, unfounded. On one of our nightly tie-a-yellow-ribbon efforts, a small group of women approached us, wanting to know if the ribbons were for Noynoy. We gave them some but they would also like to have their own posters! Another night, one store owner asked for a ribbon. When we offered him a poster, he refused. He was for Noynoy, he explained but he was being quiet about it. We got the message.

Just as we gave away the last tarp, a thousand posters arrived in perfect timing, courtesy of elderly kababayans who were also acquainted with our Noynoy volunteer from the city. And so we bundled them in fives and distributed them to family, friends, even strangers. The others we posted on posts and bus stops along major thoroughfares, never mind if those materials were not the all-weather kind.

Before we left for Manila, we drove around town and confirmed what we'd been hearing all throughout our stay. A great number of residents were yellow-at-heart. But many of them did not possess the inclination to mess with the powers that be. Some pretended to be green. Most pretended to be neutral. While there were some who openly declared their yellowness, proudly hanging Noynoy's banners in their abodes, including their source of livelihood.

Our hometown, when we left, was not exactly as yellow as we wanted it to be. Yet we went back to our daily lives filled with fresh hopes, knowing somehow that a silent majority will show its true color come May, come what may.

Big Girls Don't Cry

2010-03-16T22:57:00.007+08:00

Shots are Indie's nemeses.

Around 3 or 4 times a year we are faced with a situation where a wailing little girl, flailing arms and all, is held down by four adults, my husband and myself included. It's an ugly scenario but some things just have to be done.

This is exactly what I said to Indie during a bit-of-a-grown-up-typhoid-shot briefing an hour before we went to the clinic. I told her how one single shot could save her from ten or more painful ones. I also told her how tough I was as a kid—as far as my memory could take me, I never cried in front of a needle.

And she didn't.

Oh, how she gave her doctor a mild shock! Mama and Papa were so proud. But no one could be prouder than baby Indie herself.

It was her shot to big girl fame.

Interpretative Drawing

2010-03-10T20:00:00.008+08:00

Four-year old Indie was playing music from my cellphone and had it glued to her ears with one hand while while the other was busy doodling on her drawing board. What exactly was she doing?

Destination Anywhere

The Commitments OST

Come Back To Me

David Cook

Across The Universe

Across The Universe OST

The Sweetest Thing

2010-03-01T13:41:00.003+08:00

Just a day away from home and look what I got from my baby...

End of Innocence

2010-02-06T00:17:00.005+08:00

Ever wonder what goes on in kids' heads nowadays?

Baby Gaga

2010-02-05T23:25:00.014+08:00

I'm afraid even my soon-to-be-five-year-old Indie was not insusceptible to this phenomenon called Lady Gaga. I know her outrageous music videos are far from kiddie fare but my baby caught sight of a couple of them while watching MTV with her two cousins, aged seven and ten, who did not exactly qualify as "parental guidance" providers.

And so, like most of the world, little Indie went Gaga as well. Poker Face, Paparazzi and Bad Romance became our daily ear companions which was fine with me. Until one afternoon when Indie showed me her Lady Gaga doodle and said proudly: "Look, mama, she's only wearing panties!"

It was my turn to go gaga.

Lady Gaga photo grabbed from here.

No to Death

2010-02-04T00:52:00.004+08:00

Indie: Inay, I want to grow up fast.

Lola: Why?

Indie: Because if mama dies, I will be alone.

Awww.

More Love for Cory

2009-08-10T13:09:00.018+08:00

There's no stopping the outpouring of love for democracy's icon even days after her burial. According to a broadsheet, around 1000 people still pay their last respects at Cory's tomb in Manila Memorial on a daily basis.

As for Times Street, there was a small crowd in front of the bungalow where the revered leader lived for most of her life. There was thick wax covering part of the sidewalk from a thousand candles lit for her eternal rest. There were testaments of affection on streamers and posters. And there was a mounting pile of flowers, mostly yellow, that extended to the walls of the house next to the Aquino's. This was the scene that greeted us last morning when we stopped by, flowers and candles in hand, on the ninth day of Cory's passing.

Still For the Love of Cory

2009-08-07T22:27:00.035+08:00

As if the stories on TV were not enough, I, two days after Cory was laid to rest, still heard two personal accounts of humble little sacrifices made as final acts of thanksgiving for the leader we lost.

My sister's bestfriend came with her siblings all the way from our hometown in Batangas on the eve of Cory's funeral. They braved the tempest that brought heavy rains and thick fog to Tagaytay's accident-prone highways and lined up to the Cathedral even if their limbs were still tired from the three-hour car ride. After a brief glimpse of Tita Cory, they had to wade through Manila's flood waters to get back to their SUV parked several meters away, after which they were on to another three-hour journey back home in the wee hours of the morning.

My cousin went with the nuns who ran the hospital where she worked as a nutritionist also on the last day of the wake. It was 3 pm. The lines were long and became longer when viewing had to be stopped to give way to the necrological services. As the heavens seemed to mourn with the throngs, not a single person was not drenched, not directly from the downpour but from water dripping from a sea of umbrellas gathered so closely together. When good Samaritans started distributing boiled eggs by dinnertime, she was so famished she thought she must have swallowed an egg whole and then another. By 11 pm, they were praying in front of the casket and were out in a few minutes. The nuns rode back to the hospital while my cousin waited for her husband who got caught in traffic somewhere near Manila Hotel. She got inside the car at 1 am.

Such were the sacrifices of the nameless faces in the crowd, who gave up several hours of their day without complaint, knowing full well that Cory gave up not just a few days but nearly all days of her life for the people she never stopped believing in.

* Photos grabbed from Google search.

The Way to Cory

2009-08-03T20:26:00.036+08:00

"Five hours, man!"

So I overheard an apparently very tired female twenty-something obviously referring to the long wait at Cory's wake in La Salle Greenhills which was exactly where we were headed. But my husband Nubs and I were not intimidated.

From the first time we learned of the former President's passing, we knew we were going to pay our last respects, no matter what. The first night we offered a bouquet of yellow flowers and lit candles at Times Street. It was pouring and all the candles were put out by the rain. Yet there was not a shadow of gloom in the darkness. Amid heaps of yellow blooms was a huge Hello Kitty stuffed toy that must have been precious once to the person who brought it but was left there as a final homage to a beloved figure. Amid the downpour that got heavier every minute we stood there, an elderly couple got out of the comfort of their car to hand in a Mass Card. Amid the stillness, the halting of several more vehicles could be heard as we drove away in mournful silence.
At 10 o'clock pm of last night we walked from Virra Mall parking to La Salle in a frenzied pace, not knowing what to expect. Both sides of Ortigas were lined with a hundred cars. There were OB vans from the big networks. There was a big group of nuns outside of Gate 5. And there were throngs of uniformed police that instantly reminded me of rallies past except that, that night, they stood without truncheons in their hands nor scowls on their faces.
The queue snaked from EDSA to Gate 4 to Edsa and back to Gate 4, forming 3 long parallel lines that were at once discouraging to the faint-of-heart. But it was clear everybody was resolved to get a glimpse of Tita Cory one last time and there was simply no room for wimps in this gathering of people determined to do a little something heroic for the hero who passed away. There was a singular energy moving through this diverse crowd of senior citizens and children, chauffeur-driven ladies and women on foot, English- and sward-speaking members of the third sex, executives in barongs and blue collar workers in tattered shirts, families and barkadas, sosyals and simple folk, students and professionals.
The waiting game had an unforced camaraderie developing among us patiently queuing for our turn. We chatted with the married couple in front of us who we learned were employees at PLDT and Smart. The women behind us were OFW's who braved it out at Ninoy's historic funeral in 1983. By midnight, three of Cory's grandsons went out, apologizing for the delay, saying thank you and shaking hands with everybody.
Before 1 am, we were inside the campus. In 20 minutes or so, we were inside the gym. In another 10 minutes, we were standing right in front of the casket. And as I prayed for Cory's deliverance, I did something I haven’t done for many years—I prayed once again… for my country and her salvation.

Yellow Fever

2009-08-02T10:48:00.052+08:00

Never did yellow make such a strong comeback than yesterday when Cory Aquino, symbol of democracy, quietly passed away, leaving a divided nation united in grief. It was in 1986 when yellow became in vogue, the color of choice of the widow who became a reluctant President, the mother who willingly sacrificed herself under threat from a traitorous dictatorship and, subsequently, seven coup attempts, one of which almost killed her only son.

Cory's existence in this world had been marked by ironies. She was a private person thrust into the national spotlight by her husband's martyrdom. She was a non-politician forced to rise on the political stage by the unfortunate circumstances of her people. She was a woman averse to power but upon whom power was wholeheartedly bestowed by a nation in desperate need of leadership. She was a courageous spirit who found it in her to fight the cancer that was Marcos's violent regime and, later on, GMA's corrupt government but who was rendered powerless against the cancer that invaded her body during the last months of her life.

Only a saint could have had the heart not to lose faith in the face of such cruel contradictions but Cory was said to have died a peaceful death, unquestioning, uncomplaining, unceasing in her prayers for her country to the very end.

It is this selflessness, this goodness that drive Filipinos to tie yellow ribbons on trees, lamp posts, jeepneys, bicycles and car antennas, that bring forth a sea of yellow flowers in churches all over the country. In a touching display of unity never before seen since EDSA, people are flocking to La Salle Greenhills where the beloved Cory lies in repose. The politicians are there. The diplomats. The society matrons. The movie stars. The church people. And then there are the faceless individuals—not famous, not rich and, most of all, not paid to be there. There are middle-aged women who bring yellow flowers and place them with pride next to imposing yellow wreaths. There are people, young and old alike, wearing yellow shirts both worn and new. There is a host of many others sporting yellow bands and yellow ribbons. There is a Lola with a young grandson wrapped in a large yellow trash bag in place of a yellow tee they say they do not have money to buy.

This is one of the very few moments in our history when we can proudly tell the world we are Filipinos, moving together, praying together, all for the love of the Woman in Yellow.

*All images (except for bottom photo) grabbed from Google.

Kids on PacMom

2009-07-28T15:31:00.006+08:00

My ten-year old niece Yanna, whose TV viewing habit is limited to Disney Channel and MTV, caught sight of a dancing Dionesia Pacquiao on a magazine and blurted out: “Mama, she’s creepy!”

Of course, my sister Odie couldn’t help but burst out laughing at my niece’s innocent but somehow truthful observation. It was at that point when Yanna joined in the laughter when her brother Bubbi, aged 12, entered the room and demanded, “Hey, you two, what’s so funny?”

“Kuya, look, it’s Pacquiao’s mommy,” was Yanna’s way of explaining.

And Bubbi’s quick retort?

“Kayo talaga! It’s just Pacquiao pretending to be a girl!”

Separation Anxiety

2009-07-11T22:26:00.019+08:00

On her third week (though technically fourth day) of pre-schooling, Indie suddenly developed an aversion to school.

"My school is am baho (Indie's broken Tagalog for stinky)!"

"My classroom is not nice!"

"The floor is dirty!"

"I have too many classmates!"

"I don't like the boys!"

Thus began the horrors of two parents who were all at once faced with a rebellious daughter who was proving to be a little too strong-willed and opinionated for her age. Was our baby a rebel without a cause, I wondered. Or maybe we sent her to the wrong school. Maybe a public school was not entirely a good idea after all. Maybe she would feel more comfortable with kids who spoke English like her. Maybe she'd be better off in an all-girl school.

It would have been a never-ending list of maybes were it not for the fact that it finally occurred to me by Wednesday that Indie would always refuse to enter her classroom if I did not come and stay with her inside. She would cry and sometimes even throw up, according to her teacher, when I was not around anymore.

And then it hit me. Separation anxiety, that was what this was all about.

Poor darling. How could she, a girl of four, not experience it when I, a grown-up of almost thirty-nine, was unable to escape it as well!

The first time I left Indie at school (during the second week) was just as bad for me. I was so nervous I did not leave without first handing her teacher my calling card. You know, in case of emergency. At home, I kept checking my cellphone, fearful of, yes, an emergency call. I was afraid she might hurt herself or something. I was even scared she might choke on her grapes!

When I finally got to be with her after three hours, I hugged her like we were away from each other for days. Of course, she must have felt the same way. I should have known better....

Straight from the Big Mouth of Babes

2009-06-17T14:31:00.003+08:00

Last weekend over lunch...

INDIE : (On my sister's buffalo wings.)
"Gert's cooking is sarap."

ME : "How about mama's?"

INDIE : "Yeah..."
(This said as if she was asked at gunpoint.)

ME : "How about my soup?"

INDIE : "The knorr pork cubes are sarap."

Uhmm, did you just spill the beans, darling? Or the cubes rather?

India's Assessment

2009-06-16T20:14:00.042+08:00

My little family of late risers woke up unusually early last morning. It was Indie's appointed first assessment at school and everyone was excited. It was a one-on-one meeting with her teacher wherein the teacher is supposed to give the student a series of activities so she gets a starting point with which to measure the child's progress on the next assessment.

It was scheduled at 9:30 am. We were ready by 8. So Indie took off her rain boots, sat on the bed with her drawing board and doodled a bit. We left the house 15 minutes to 9.

Indie the first-time student who came prepared for the rainy day was, not surprisingly, unprepared to meet her new mentor. I had to escort her inside and stay for quite some time in a spot where she could see me. After a minute or two, I knew my little girl didn't really need me there so I headed for the door without looking back.

My husband Nubs and I whiled away the time taking turns with the camera. Sheesh, I really want that DSLR!

Around half of the 30-minute mark, we heard a squeal. Was that Indie? Yes, it was her said Nubs who immediately run to the door. He motioned for me to take a peak as well and there was our baby talking non-stop. That was the Indie that we knew. What we didn't know was that she would be so un-shy so soon...

After the session, the 4-year old had a rush of adrenaline, maybe from that half hour spent with a stranger-turned-friend, independent of her papa and mommy. She was rewarded with a slice of carrot cake at Chocolate Kiss which proved to be not enough for the growing girl. A slice of devil's food cake was in order.

To complete the experience, we had lunch at the famous Beach House which, for the unfamiliar, was situated nowhere near a body of water but very close to a sunken garden or the Sunken Garden. This is where they serve the best barbecue in town. Another reward for the new student, on a momentous occasion in her young life.

Of course, Indie was most likely unaware of the day's importance. And at the end of it, she simply came up with an assessment of her own—

"I like my teacher. She's a nice girl."

Cheap Shot, Baby

2009-06-07T22:06:00.008+08:00

My youngest sister Gert's series of "who's older" questions must have finally got to Indie and—

GERT : Who's older me or Mama Dra?

INDIE : But you're fatter, right?

Good Morning Vietnam, Day 3

2009-05-20T00:12:00.066+08:00

Our third day in HCMC was marked by a series of taxi mishaps that led me to believe that the Nam Ky Koi-La Fenetre misadventure the night before was still hovering over us like a dark cloud of bad cab luck.

From Saigon Center in Le Loi Blvd., we decided to try a delightful-looking resto within an old European structure we passed by somewhere near the Reunification Palace along, yes, Nam Ky Koi. But the midday sun was awfully hot so we flagged a taxi, come what may! Okay, the game plan was not to mention Nam Ky Koi to avoid another disaster. So we all said "Reunification Palace" which the driver seemed to have no problem comprehending. He confidently drove thru familiar streets until suddenly he was, wait, going back to the direction of our hotel! He stopped the taxi in the corner of Mac Thi Buoi and a street parallel to Dong Khoi and pointed, as if defensively, to the signage above us. It said Saigon "Palace" Hotel! Arrrrrrgh!
To make things simpler, we settled on lunch wherever along the short Mac Thi Buoi stretch. We agreed to have an Italian feast, some carbo-loading to make up for energy lost due to a cab guy blunder so early in the day. The restaurant is named "Goldfish". You can just imagine how un-Italian that sounded so no one could fault me for my initial reservations about the place. But the universe called for balance at that point in time and we were promptly rewarded with a great meal of two pastas and a pizza. ( I was having quite a migraine attack so no food pics, sorry...)
It was drizzling in the afternoon but Indie was in no mood for a nap so we just went out and rode yet another taxi with Rosene in the hunt for the Cheech Santos-Ed Hardy overrun pair. We stepped off the cab without finding the targeted store and no one was surprised nor disappointed.

Now there was no room to pause and think if someone was playing tricks on us so we hailed yet another taxi to bring us to the Chinese district of Cholon. Cholon, in Q5 (quan for district), was a bit far from our Q1 comfort zone. We entered the district, half-expecting a Binondo-ish arch saying Chinatown but there was none. We saw a store selling very nice spherical hanging lamps but the driver just kept on. Okay, there was always a way to come back and get one. We passed by typical Chinese paraphernalia on display. Rosene spotted the tiled roofs of a beautiful temple. (I read somewhere on the net that there were 2 temples worth-visiting in the area.) But the day's Mr. Taxi Man number 3 seemed to have ideas of his own and did not stop his vehicle in spite of our obvious and heightening desire to go down.

When he finally did a full stop, it was in front of the Bin Thay market. Yes, I've read about it also but this was not where we wanted to go! Okay, we were a bit lost. But there was a silent consensus not to lose our sense of humor. In spite. And so we braved the market's Divisoria-like atmosphere and went in.
The lighting was insufficient. It was dingy. It was musty. And everybody seemed to be shouting at us, grabbing us by the arm, hard-selling their wares. I took a deep breath and snapped, "Don't touch! Don't touch!" Nobody bothered us again. But poor Indie had no choice but to endure this place that was certainly unfit for little kids like her.

In all fairness, the goods came at very low prices. I had this suspicion that even sellers at Ben Thanh buy their stuff from here. We bought Chinese silks, some bags and beaded slippers for Indie. Quickly, we made the rounds and rushed out of the place!
Now, time to get the hanging lamps or that temple visit. Jeez, nobody remembered the street names so how on earth could we go back to both? After much deliberation, we took a cab and just directed the driver to bring us to Ben Thanh, hoping against hope that he will traverse the same streets as the driver before him. As our taxi slowly inched its way out of Cholon, it became clear that we were passing thru unfamiliar roads. And, oh yes, we did miss the must-see pagodas, the Chinatown shopping experience and the lamps Nubs and I wanted so badly!

And the irony of it all—Rosene got a sms from a friend as to the exact location of La Fenetre. And so we ended up where all this cab bad luck started.

The controversial La Fenetre was right above Deco Cafe, in the corner of Nam Ky Koi and Le Thanh Ton. Hell, Nubs, Indie and I were just somewhere in this area yesterday afternoon but how were we suppossed to know?! The climb up to La Fenetre was as just as conversation-provoking as the search for it the night before.
And the inside? It was worth all the misadventures that came with it. La Fenetre was full of character and ambience, filled with beautiful pieces of furniture from another era, each with a story to tell. The windows were tall; the lighting, dramatic. We were not allowed to take photos though after 4 shots. So no food pics again!
We had mozzarella sandwiches, fried chicken, gambas and apple with ginger crepe. All very good but the best had to come in last, of course. The banana and passion fruit crepe. Simply mouth-watering.

We took pictures of the surrounding night scene then went for an after-dinner stroll along Le Thanh Ton.
We bought chips from the local version of 7-Eleven and more of yesterday's 10,000-dong beaded purses after which we took a right at Pasteur where I collected my Mother's Day present from Nubs.
Happy and relaxed at last, we hopped on a cab, without qualms this time. Little Indie chanted, "Mac Thi Buoi! Mac Thi Buoi!", which the good-natured driver found very amusing. Upon depositing father and daughter at the hotel, Rosene and I walked to a nearby moneychanger to replenish our dong supply. Along the way we chanced upon these cute ethnic espadrilles that we both just couldn't resist trying on! So I haggled and haggled until we got a good price for 2 pairs.

We ended the day on a high note—great finds, plus not to mention finding La Fenetre! Who would have thought that another surprise was on the way? By 10 pm, Indie was burning... She was running a fever as high as 39ºC!

Good Morning Vietnam, Day 2

2009-05-18T21:50:00.077+08:00

I woke up quite early. Father and daughter slept soundly on the double bed we all shared while Rosene's single bed was empty as she spent the previous night in a friend's flat. I had the morning all to myself so I took some pictures from our room and from the top floor where our morning meals were always served.

It was explore-HCMC-day for the family. After breakfast, we immediately set off on foot to the Opera House which was but two blocks from Mac Thi Buoi. Along the way, we passed by the shops of Dong Khoi, a bridal photo shoot and HCMC's Vespa gang at every turn. Contrary to what I've read about these motorists over the net, I noticed that they were not as unruly as the write-ups said. But then again, it was a Sunday so it was too early to tell.

The Post Office was next. It was very touristy. Everybody was busy clicking away so we took no time joining in the shutter fest. There was quite a number of subjects actually—the grand ceiling, the antique maps on the walls, a portrait of Ho Chin Minh, the telephone booths from another age...

We then crossed the street to the Notre Dame Cathedral and soon found out that we didn't make it to viewing time, darn! Nevertheless, we spent time clicking away with the church's beautiful facade as background.

We were hungry but the only resto in sight was Pho24 which we just had to pass up since we had those back in our Manila malls already. And so we walked some more but the sun was at a rather unforgiving state and Indie was complaining about her empty stomach so we settled on the plain yet decent-looking fast food joint right next to Pho24. Food was very cheap but surprisingly good, the chicken and pork as tender and tasty as we wanted them to be. We also tried the Fanny Ice Cream which was, come to think of it, pricier than the food! But what the heck, the strawberry flavor was authentic. And the mint chocolate was, I must say, close to nirvana.

We were just dodging a bike outside when a smiling waitress came running after us with Indie's forgotten hairband. The Vietnamese were good people, I made a mental note of that.

After siesta at the Thang Long, we went back to our tourists-for-the-day endeavor and were soon at the Cathedral which, thank God, was open for viewing this time. There was a divider just a few steps away from the giant doors that separated the sightseer from the pious and nobody minded it seemed. But I did! I wasn't able to take pictures of the altar which I bet would have been fascinating to photograph just like any old churches anywhere in the world.

We walked further to the left side of the Notre Dame in the direction of the Reunification Palace. The parks were lined with tall trees and populated by locals enjoying their Sunday picnic. I also spotted a rowdy group of men engaged in some form of Viet gambling.

French influence was everywhere. And it was that thing that made HCMC both lovely and mysterious to the eyes of a stranger like myself. It was old like a small European city but it never lost its Asian roots. We walked along Nam Ky Koi Ngia and Pasteur and immersed ourselves in our surroundings.

After some time, we found ourselves in front of the Museum so we gave it a go for 15,000 dong per adult while toddler Indie was free to enter. So on to another round of photo ops.

We came across some independent Saigonese fashion shops somewhere in Pasteur and we were so lucky to find some exquisite and intricately-made beaded bags on sale. Ten thousand dong only I went crazy!

Then there was this other shop selling very unique stuff from Cambodia, Laos and the mountains of Vietnam. I just found the perfect Mother's Day gift for Nubs to buy me! But there was no need to rush...

We reached the People's Committee Hall and wasted no time having our pictures taken in front of the Colonial architecture. By this time, Indie was quite tired so we took a leisurely stroll back to our hotel.

We freshened up and hooked up with an old friend for dinner at Ben Thanh night market. Poppet took us to a crowded al fresco make-shift restaurant with waiters in yellow shirts who were obviously having a hard time keeping up with the sea of diners wanting a taste of whatever the resto had to offer. Given his familiarity with the place, my friend appointed himself in-charge of ordering.

Then viands started falling, as if randomly, into our very, very small table like manna from heaven and there was clearly an absence of space for plates to eat on. Okay, small bowls would have to do but these certainly took a long time coming. And the vegetables! I've never seen so many of them gathered on one table or plate for that matter.

But what do you know! The meal proved to be our best dining experience in this quaint little city. There was pork barbecue, grilled beef, kikiam, sugar cane sticks wrapped in shrimp meat, bean sprouts fried in a lumpia-esque wrapper, yang chow rice, another kind of rice and, of, course, the greens.

And we had to eat everything in a certain way. Like Beijing's Peking Duck, it came with some sort of Saigonese ceremony:

First, spread a leaf (lettuce or romaine) on your palm.
Line it with filling of choice (been sprouts, sugar cane sticks, kikiam, beef or pork) or a combination of two.
Add a basil leaf or two for that authentic local flavor.
Roll it.
Dunk it into the spicy fish sauce.

And voila, it was simply the best! For a self-declared non-veggie eating carnivore, I had an unbelievable total of 5 rolls. Everybody ate so much it was difficult to get up on our feet to kiss Poppet goodnight!

At Rosene's suggestion, the sumptuous dinner was to be capped by the most delicious crepes in town to be relished in to-die-for ambience. In the span of a few minutes, the search for La Fenetre slowly became the great Saigon adventure for apart from the street name, Rosene had no idea where it really was. After a few intersections, Nubs and I realized that Nam Ky Koi was the same road we passed by during the afternoon but we didn't know exactly what Rosene was looking for and besides streets had this uncanny ability to change appearances under the cover of darkness so we were absolutely of no help! In the middle of all this, Mr. Taxi Man drove steadily, dealing with our friend with the patience of a saint despite the language barrier that hung between them. By the time we gave up and decided to just head back to the hotel, Mr. Taxi Man seemed to have lost a fraction of his patience and grew an allergic reaction to every mention of Nam Ky Koi!

After the failed dessert attempt, I contented myself with a few shots of the Thang Long and was in for another discovery! There, right beside our home in HCMC, seemingly out of place, was a conveneince store not like 7-Eleven or any other air-conditioned mini-mart—it was a sari-sari store no different from the ones back home!

Ho Chi Minh was turning out to be full of surprises I couldn't help but wonder what tomorrow might bring....

Good Morning Vietnam, Day 1

2009-05-16T21:37:00.063+08:00

We—my husband Nubs, daughter Indie, friend Rosene and myself—landed in HCMC at midnight. Masks on our faces, we went from immigration to baggage briskly and proceeded to get ourselves some dong. It was actually a lot of dong, no loads of it! I exchanged a couple hundred USDs and became an instant millionaire three times over and more!
We were collected at the airport by the driver of a local travel agency and immediately transported to our 2-star hotel along Mac Thi Buoi St. in the Dong Khoi area in District 1. I discovered Thang Long through the internet and chose it over many other budget hotels simply because it was negative review-free on Trip Advisor and other similar sites. Our room, bathroom included, was spotless when we arrived. It was cramped but it was cheap so no one complained.

We unpacked, slept around 2 am Vietnam time (1 hour later than Philippine time) and woke up by 10. Complimentary breakfast, on the top floor, was a choice between bread or pho, plus a drink. Save for the bread which was very good, it was nothing great but filling enough.

We walked along Dong Khoi. This was roughly equivalent to our Makati as opposed to Pham Ngu Lao, the backpackers' district that was more like our Ermita. By Makati, I meant the Sheraton was there; there was a Gucci, a Versace, a Marc Jacobs and a Louis Vuitton among others; the restos were on the uppity side, with food prices more or less similar to those in Greenbelt; there were rows upon rows of mid- to high-brow shops selling embroidered accessories, art, apparel, silk scarves and ethnic bags among others.
Of course, Ho Chi Minh was, correct me if I'm wrong, about two or three decades lagging behind us. Our MOAs, Gloriettas and Ayala Avenue skyscrapers were unheard of in these parts. All the same, HCMC was not provincial, possessing a touristy bustle that seemed both healthy and promising.

For lunch, we walked thru a dark alley of a hundred parked motorcycles you'd think this was the hideout of some Vespa mafia. It was deceiving, naturally, for hidden in this alley was a classy Thai restaurant with gorgeous Old World interiors and world-class cuisine. We had Catfish Salad (with green mangoes on top), Vegetables with Grilled Pork, Red Chicken Curry and sticky rice to go with everything. Deeeeelicious!

We spent our first afternoon in the city in Ben Thanh market where we bought an ao dai and traditional Vietnamese hat for Indie and souvenirs to bring home. Haggling was the norm. It paid to pretend to walk away to get the price you wanted or at least close to it. Generally, it was cheaper to buy from outside stalls where they sold goods at fixed prices versus those inside where everything was more expensive—I think it didn't matter if you haggled hard for them.

From Ben Thanh, we moved to Saigon Square for the overrun selection the prices of which, according to Rosene who was there three years ago, rose in direct proportion to HCMC's popularity among tourists. Oh, by the way, cab-hopping within District 1 should cost you 12,000 dong only, anywhere higher than that and you probably flagged a not-so-scrupulous taxi driver.

It rained in the middle of the afternoon so the night was thankfully cool. We had dinner at a restaurant aptly called Vietnam House that catered to a Caucasian market. There was a certain grandeur to the place: high ceilings, chandeliers, yellow hotel-ish lighting, ambient indigenous music played by a group of four ladies in national costume.

We had spicy beef pho, prawns in honey and grilled pork chop. The meal was soooo good but hey, what could we expect from the people who once hosted former Presidents Cory Aquino of the Philippines and George Bush of the USofA!

Dessert was Banoffee Pie in Jaspas, a few blocks from Vietnam House in the company of two of Rosene's HCMC-based Filipino friends. The pie was fantastic, rivalled only by the banoffees of the now closed Area Café back Home.

After dinner, Rosene and friends headed for a night of clubbing in Pham Ngu Lao while Nubs, Indie and myself walked backed to our hotel to let the little tourist rest. Good night, Vietnam....

The Thing About Flying on a Budget

2009-05-15T22:19:00.030+08:00

Our trip to Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC) was our first time to fly on a budget airline. It was one of those major Cebu Pacific seat sales that I chanced upon three months ago while surfing the net. Total for the three of us, my husband Nubs and our four-year old Indie, was just a little over Php14,000. So, together with our good friend Rosene, we grabbed the offer like a lifesaver to a drowning man. And it was a breeze! I could get addicted to online booking, really.

We were to depart at 11 o'clock p.m. at the recently opened NAIA 3. The flow from travel tax payment to check-in to terminal fee payment to immigration was confusing. Order was simply not the order of the day. We had to walk back and forth from one counter to another. It was a good thing we were two hours early and there were very few travelers to congest the place.

Apart from the lateness of the flight which was not very ideal when venturing out of the country with a little person, we soon found out the inconvenient truth about cheap fares. It took Indie but a few minutes on her chair to realize that these seats were certainly designed without comfort in mind. And the legroom? Maybe those people who built planes like this forgot one important thing—passengers do have legs.

Now the pilot seemed to know a great deal about what he was doing. We landed on Vietnam soil smoothly and thirty minutes ahead of schedule. We were quite impressed, aching backs, calves and all.

P.S. After the plane ride, the mere mention of the word "airport" sent Indie into fits of crying and I had to ask her repeatedly what was wrong, to which she finally answered, "The airplane was too small!"

So, is this the end of budget flying for us? It all depends... on the budget. Seriously.

Where Did That Come From?

2009-05-04T17:34:00.020+08:00

In the car on our way to lunch with my nephews who came all the way from Batangas...

ME (38): Where do you want to eat guys?

MOJO (7): McDonald’s—

BUBBI (11): Hey, we didn’t go this far just to eat at McDo!
(pregnant pause)
I learned that from my fat ass dad!

Okay, so where did that come from?

To Be Brit Or Not To Be Brit

2009-05-04T02:28:00.012+08:00

If I were given a second chance and a second choice at my race, maybe I'd pick to be Brit. They brought us New Wave for Christ's sakes! (Can you honestly imagine growing up in the 80s without punk rock?) And the Beatles before that! And there's Hugh Grant. Plus Jim Sturgess. And for many others, Robert Pattinson. And who doesn't love Brit humor? Think Notting Hill, Bridget Jones, and, yes, Simon Cowell. And never forget about the bloody accent. Isn't it lovely?

But coming from yesterday, I am only too happy there are no such things as second chances and second choices at race. The Brits have all of the above alright, but they do not have Manny Pacquiao.

PacMan Proud

2009-05-03T14:09:00.015+08:00

We have been called a lot of things. Maids (by the Webster dictionary and, most recently, by a HongKong-based writer). Petty thieves. Mail order brides. One cannot blame our Filipino brothers abroad for sometimes having feelings of shame about the race they are born with. No, it's not because of the domestic helpers, the internet brides, the petty thieves. It's the bigger thieves sitting in positions of power in their homeland, hounding them with news of corruption even as they work their butts off in strange lands because their country cannot provide for them.

Today, Pinoys all over the globe should savor the moment. They should go out in the streets and tell everyone they come across with they are Filipinos—with pride, without the old feelings of inferiority, without bowed heads and downcast eyes. They should do it now. While the victory is still fresh. While the world is still in awe. And at the end of the day, they should thank God for men like Manny Pacquiao.

Pinoy Food Lab

2009-05-02T15:42:00.017+08:00

Since the New Year kicked off I have been experimenting on my favorite Filipino dishes guided by a cookbook I inherited from my sister Odie who is blessed with loads of talent in the kitchen, who in turn inherited this talent from an old maid aunt who passed away long before the "birthing" of my so-called interest in cooking.

The recipes are simple and idiot-proof, thank God, that even kitchen ignoramuses like me have no recourse but to do everything right. The only drawback here is that everything is written in Filipino—Tagalog, actually—and I have, on several occasions, encountered unfamiliar words that I just try to decipher through the context that they are used. Of course, it doesn't help to have an Ilonggo for a husband.

My first attempt was the picadillo. It's a dish of Latin American origin that has been Filipinized by Maya (meaning, the olives, capers and chili have been omitted) and family-ized by Odie who added malunggay for nutiritional value.

The almondigas was not entirely new to me. I tried cooking it as a college kid but it never turned out great. I'm proud to say things have changed for the better...

My nilagang baka was good enough except that we had quite a hard time chewing the beef. My fault. I should have used the pressure cooker but I had no idea how it worked!

My pork sinigang was better than all my other experiments. Yum!

But my twice-cooked adobo was the best of them all! The toasted garlic were so delicious I couldn't believe I ate them!

Now I think I'm beginning to fall in love with my lab. And the conclusion? I'm slowly losing my fear of the kitchen but surely gaining weight in the process!

Two Negatives Do Not Make A Positive...

2009-04-30T11:54:00.008+08:00

Never mind the mathematical equation. And that rule on English grammar.

The fact is I am not pregnant. About that I am positive.

Bad, Bad Weather

2009-04-28T16:20:00.004+08:00

The weather seems to have developed a taste for mind games lately and last Saturday was a proud display of the mastery it has somehow gained.

But I was not to be outwitted. On the car ride on our way to Balayan for my nephew Mojo's 7th birthday, I came prepared with sunglasses in my bag in case the sun decides to shine and jacket in hand in case the rain chooses to fall. Either way, I was determined not to lose the game.

And so it went. From Boracay hot to Baguio cold. From a major downpour to a light drizzle. From dry roads to flooded highways. From ominous dark clouds to promising blue skies.

I hurriedly put on my jacket right before it was about to rain and off when it was about to stop. I quickly wore my shades when the sun was about to come out—not wanting to give it a chance to hurt my eyes—and just as quickly slid them to the top of my head just before it became too dark. This went on and on until finally I did not have enough energy to keep up with the weather and its bag of tricks.

Around 10 kilometers away from our destination, the sun was mockingly back to its old hot self but I was just too tired to care. I refused to take off my jacket in spite of the growing heat nor wear my shades back over my eyes despite the migraine-inducing brightness outside. I sat morosely and stared defiantly ahead, not once glancing upward where the weather was sure to be gloating in its apparent victory over the hapless human being that was me.

Of Kids and Baby-Making

2009-04-28T00:32:00.005+08:00

These days Indie has this new interest in the "production" of a sibling and...

INDIE: "Mommy, I will make a sister."

ME: "No, darling, it's papa and mommy who will make your sister."

INDIE: "Okay. So how do you make her?"

Uhmmm... Isn't it a bit too early for the birds and the bees?

Go Mango!

2009-04-23T21:31:00.007+08:00

I actually made my first mango cream pie from a buco cream pie recipe I found at the back of the crushed graham pack I bought from the grocery store. It was a simple matter of substituting buco with mango.

My first attempt was for a hotpot dinner with friends where I prepared everything myself, including the drinks. It turned out okay, really. One of my male friends was just about to say how surprisingly good it was when his slice flew from his plate straight to the placemat! The crust was, to be honest about it, not very cooperative with the fork...

With a few tweaks here and there, my mango dessert has grown more "cooperative" and yummier with every try. So yummy, in fact, my husband gained 5 lbs. in a week's time!

Talk About the Weather

2009-04-22T19:01:00.025+08:00

It was around six in the evening last Sunday after a brief shower that must have caused the day's hellish weather when suddenly the sky was aglow. Heaven was on fire.

Later that night, the rain poured in torrents. Its heavy sound broken only by bolts of thunder that came with blinding flashes of lightning that sent my Indie cowering even in her half-asleep state. Only when the storm subsided did she fall back into a peaceful slumber, but still with her hands over her ears.

I remember I was just as cowed as a little girl. The oldies at home, to erase our childish fears, used to give us kids some form of explanation that sounded foolish even to our unenlightened ears. They said thunder was merely the sound made when God was bowling—yes, bowling—with his friends up there. While lightning was the doing of shutter-happy angels. Oh well, God must have played a mean game of bowling that stormy Sunday and the heavenly paparazzi simply had a field day.

Greek Easter

2009-04-15T11:13:00.032+08:00

Our Hellenic Easter Sunday lunch was unplanned. We were on a drive back to the city from a 5-day Holy Week sojourn in our Batangas home when hunger overtook us somewhere along the highways of Tagaytay. Mano's Greek Taverna was the unanimous choice.

We have previously come across some favorable reviews about the restaurant on a glossy and a broadsheet before so we all expected a good satisfying meal. The owner is of course Mano (in top photo), Greek obviously, married to an olive-skinned Filipina. His place, painted in typical Mediterranean fashion, was actually unpretentious; the food, certainly more affordable than that of Cyma.

We found a quiet nook that we had all to ourselves with a view of Tagaytay's pines and motorists who seemed to be in a rush to return to Manila.

The lamb gyro was good enough, though not as rich and creamy as Cyma's bestselling chicken gyro. The lamb came in small quantities too but that was quite understandable as it was a more costly ingredient compared to chicken or beef.

We were very happy with the grilled pork chops. Tender. With a salty flavor that I loved. (Just an aside, A Taste of L.A. Cafe's pork chops are still the best for me. Seconded by Fish and Company's. Mano's, I think, comes in third.) The french fries were a surprise! Cooked in olive oil. Greaseless. And oh so yummy they did not need dips at all.

Now the tilapia was the day's winner I'd say, judging by my sisters' display of gastronomical pleasure. What made it special was the interesting mixture of olive oil and lemon that it was served with. They could do though with a much fresher fish, said the girls.

The much hyped about baklava was not to be missed. But, disappointingly, turned out to be just that—a hype. It was totally lacking in sweetness and that mouth-watering factor obligatory of desserts, saved only by the apple-cinnamon sauce on top.

The meal was quite heavy so we stayed around for a while, sitting back as Indie and Mano's little boy stood by the window until it was time to go.

Mano had excellent PR skills that extended to the parking lot. He assisted each arriving and departing vehicle like a security guard in the Metro and no one ever had to tip him! That's Mano's Greek Taverna. I sure won't mind coming back.

Lights(Off), Camera, Action!

2009-03-28T23:56:00.007+08:00

Earth Hour 2009. Helping save the planet in our own little way with our little one.

Conquering the Galunggong

2009-03-26T23:32:00.007+08:00

I am proud to announce that I have advanced from gigi mangler...

...to a competent enough gigi handler.

Yes, I cleaned them all myself. This time without fuss. Without any cuss words. Without a single gigi head out of place.

Seasoned Traveler

2009-03-24T08:16:00.014+08:00

Little Indie seems to think of herself as one. She's perfectly at ease at big airports. She appears to be no stranger to take offs and touchdowns. And shows every indication of familiarity with on-board routine.

During a flight from Bangkok to Manila, upon seeing the stewardesses with the food trolley, she immediately formed a megaphone-like circle over her mouth and dutifully announced to all passengers:

"Eating time, eating time!"

I Think My Hotpot Is Hot

2009-03-20T19:40:00.013+08:00

In a month’s time, my hotpot has evolved from edible to yummy, having been the melting pot of a few "learnings" here and there…

Beef should be sukiyaki cut. Always. It’s easier on the palate, not to mention the teeth.
Add carbs. Like corn. Or noodles. For obvious reasons.
Squid balls take some time to cook. A little patience is necessary.
The more onion leeks, the better. (Yes, even if they make you cry.)
Chili flakes are essential. They add oomph, even to tasteless, flavorless stock.
Hot pots look hot with really nice chopsticks.
It’s bok choy, not botchok. Always remember and save self from another embarrassing moment in the palengke.

To-Die-For(?) Shoes

2009-03-20T00:09:00.011+08:00

Thrice I learned about it. First from a poster hanging by the door of the Crocs store in Greenbelt 5. Second from the Sunday paper. Third from my BPI credit card bill.

Yes, three times. I took it as a sign for me to go and get my little one a new pair.

We, my husband Nubs, my sister Pie, my daughter Indie and myself, arrived at the venue, a tent somewhere along Meralco Ave., 30 minutes later than the designated time which was 10 in the morning. And to our surprise—or should I say horror— there was a line. No, make that two, one for BPI cardholders and another one for those who do not own a BPI card.

The lines were long and getting longer by the minute. It was pretty obvious the event organizers were unprepared for the onslaught of people wanting to get their hands on a marked down pair of the immensely popular, brightly colored rubber sandals.

They stopped letting customers in by 10:45, claiming that the place was jampacked already, and we were among the unlucky ones left to wait under the scorching sun. By midday the sun had grown too hot and had caused quite a good number of hotheads to emerge from the swelling crowd.

There was a middle-aged Chinese man who issued invectives at one defenseless female staff at the gate. There was another guy who shouted kapal ng mukha mo at a woman trying to get in with total disregard for the queuing public. There was a verbal battle, I overheard, that ensued between two car owners in a contest for parking space. It was utter madness and I was afraid a gunshot would be next!

Was all this worth it? I was about to tell Nubs that we should just go home when the guards opened the doors again and, suddenly, I was inside the tent scrambling for a pair of maryjanes for Indie at 60% off and other pairs for my nephews Bubbi and Mojo and niece Yanna at Pie’s bidding. The effort took more than an hour.

The lines leading to the cash registers were discouraging as well. There were only 12 or so cashiers servicing hundreds of shoppers buying around 6 pairs each on the average.

It was a struggle every step of the way. For people from different walks of life. Whose idea of saving in the face of the looming recession was not holding back from spending but shopping at whatever % savings. Who would risk being out there even when things threaten to get ugly. All for the most comfortable but ugliest shoes on earth.

Littlest Bar Girl

2009-03-04T18:09:00.006+08:00

When my cousin Charles was home for the holidays, drinking was a nightly staple among us everyday of that week he was with us. The few evenings we spent without going out were reserved for drinking still. As if automatically, it was "bar mode" as soon as dinner was over in our old apartment. That meant dimming all the lights to create an atmosphere conducive for beer and wine—my husband Nubs' idea actually.

One pre-"bar mode" night, Nubs was busy turning off the overhead lights and turning on the mood lamps when little Indie suddenly blurted out:

"Thanks for the drinks, Papa."

Something Fishy

2009-02-08T22:25:00.048+08:00

After much furor and a handful of errors, my fledgling chef career has reached its lowest point. I came from the grocery store and brought home a small plastic bag of galunggong, among others, to cook sometime in the middle of the week. Incidentally, I googled galunggong or gigi for short and learned that female gigi is hard-tail mackerel in English while male gigi is round scad. Of course, I had no way of telling the gender of the bunch of dead fish lying on the kitchen sink so I'm not going to refer to these in English for purposes of this entry but will instead use the fish's popular nickname among us Pinoys.

It was my second time to buy gigi and the first time was uneventful as it should be. And so nothing prepared me for the shock of finding my gigis unready for the freezer, uncleaned, complete with all their insides that should have been taken care of by the grocery staff. I was in panic mode! My husband was not there to do something or, at the very least, to listen to me curse. I had never cleaned a single fish in my life before and had no idea how to do it. All I knew was that there was icky stuff to take out of it and that was it. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it! Gore has never been my kind of thing. I watched Kill Bill with eyes closed for the most part of the movie. I dropped out of B.S. Biology knowing I'd never have the stomach to open up a frog. So how? How on earth could I possibly pull this one off?

I took a deep breath, tongs in one hand, plastic covering the other, I tried to extract whatever needed extracting but everything just won't come off. So I did away with the tongs and gave it another try with my kitchen shears. When that still didn't work, I settled with my hands.

Only when I was over and done with the job did I really stop to look again at the poor gigis. It was an appalling sight! One fish's body gaped open as if it was attacked by a wild animal. One seemed to have lost its head to a vicious encounter with a psychopath. And the rest looked like they were abused, mauled, tortured by a person who had gone amok.

I was home alone and was near tears. By the time my husband showed up, I was in a foul mood and I refused to speak to him until I fell asleep. It took me quite some time to accept that I just did not take to cooking—and other related tasks—like a fish to water.

25 Random Things About Moi

2009-02-05T13:26:00.006+08:00

Just sharing something that has been going around Facebook for weeks now. So here goes:

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

To do this, go to "notes" under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.

I am banlag. For those who do not know, banlag is the opposite of cross-eyed. In my case, caused by watching TV sideways. Though no doctor has ever confirmed this.
I’m always on a high after a videoke night. Yes, even if I never hit the high notes or any notes for that matter.
I had piano lessons with a lola for six years and had secret hopes of becoming a virtuoso which, of course, did not materialize.
I was a quiz bee champion. In Philippine History. I lost the division level—2 steps before national level—to a very easy question that I overlooked while reviewing. My mother was furious.
Every night for more than a month, my husband Nubs and I never missed a viewing of Across the Universe, either the making or the movie itself.
I started smoking at age 13 and quit only when my father was diagnosed with lung cancer.
I have not forgiven the adult person who, on several occasions, was deliberately unkind to my little Indie. Hell hath no fury like a mother whose child was scorned.
I am a certified hothead.
On the other hand, I can be very charming when I choose to be—at Customs when I’m carrying excess baggage or at flea markets when I’m haggling for something I’m dying to get my hands on.
I used to be quite good at billiards.
My most embarrassing moment was standing under the rain somewhere near the Sunken Garden with suds in my hair. (No, don’t blame it on the rain. Blame it on the shower gel that I grabbed when I ran out of gel!)
I honestly enjoy doing any domestic chore that involves water. Washing clothes. Cleaning the bathroom. Anything.
Tell me a secret and I will bring it to my grave. As in.
Many times I have been called a bad influence. But that remains to be proven. Haha!
As I push 40, age has become a consideration when I’m shopping for clothes. And yes, shoes. I have this feeling that one cannot get away with everything upon reaching a certain age. I am not Madonna, after all.
A psychic friend once told me that I have powers the same as hers.
I am a shameless kuripot. I’m a sucker for bargains. And a “sale” sign is enough to send me into frenzy.
A good conversation is enough to keep me entertained on a night out. Alcohol is now just an option.
I have survived the first 38 years of my life without seafood and vegetables. And I just turned 38 late last year.
I need funny people in my life.
I wish I were all grown-up during the 60s and the 70s.
I am extremely close to my sisters. And I absolutely adore my nephews and niece.
I would like to believe that I’m a very reliable friend.
I’m on to something that I should have done before. But I ain't telling. Yet.
This is my second life. Period.

Shiny Happy Little People

2009-02-02T13:01:00.018+08:00

I have found time and time again that kids are the easiest people to please in the world. It also doesn't take much to make them happy. Extremely happy.

It was a seemingly ordinary morning on the last Saturday of January when we, transients in my mother's Batangas home, woke unusually early. We all decided to the make most of the morning, quickly jumped out of bed and headed for the beach. The beach was no longer the beach of my childhood. There was a new promenade to speak of. And there were playgrounds! The kids ran to make a go for the swing, monkey bars and everything. So I took out my camera and tried the best I could to capture the smiles on their young excited faces.

It's Not 'What' But 'Who' Is Cooking in 2009

2009-01-25T16:18:00.051+08:00

It's my least favorite place in the world, the kitchen. And I find the least comfort standing right next to the stove. Yes, I am a cooking ignoramus. I am completely clueless as to how to boil an egg, really. I have fried though a good number of anything that can be eaten straight from the frying pan. Yes, eggs. Spam. Chicken. Bacon. Pork belly. Tapa. Sausage. Ham. Rice. Fish. Name it. And that's it.

So for 2009, I have resolved to give the kitchen a second try and take this business of being a housewife a little bit more seriously. You see, I'm going into my seventh year of wife-hood come June, fourth year of motherhood in May but I have yet to cook a decent meal for my husband Nubs and daughter Indie.

Yes, I know. It's a shame.

Saturday night was the launching of my wife/mother/fledgling chef career. The red broiler-like object above—which I found serendipitously among our stored wedding presents during our recent move from one apartment to another—became my springboard for my so-called launch. I was (still am) actually not sure how to call this thing, a stove-top gadget that used steam to turn food from non-edible to edible.

First step was to season the meat. I got the unofficial recipe from my sister Odie who's a great cook. I cannot divulge though how I went about it as this particular recipe is a bestseller in my sister's mini restaurant in our hometown in Batangas.

The meat looked quite photogenic on the grill. I tested one piece with a fork and there was a tender and juicy promise to it. The smell was even more promising. The question was: will it translate to taste? At least it was healthy eating. I mean, there was no cooking oil involved in the process. So there was only natural animal fat to contend with. Like I said, at least.

I cheated on the salad. After all, a neophyte cannot take on too many courses in one go, including something as simple as a leafy concoction. I bought a ready-to-serve pack from Rustan's Fresh—the Oriental kind with creamy mango dressing—and was given a hand by my guest/friend Rosene with the tossing. (I didn't trust myself to do it, actually.)

And so after 3 hours of labor with the red gadget, the table was finally set. The pork was not as juicy as it should have been having been ready an hour or so before. The chicken took too long to cook and was actually still on the raw side we discovered and had to spend some more time in the broiler, again! (The truth is, I couldn't tell if the chicken was cooked and had to enlist Rosene's help. Same with the vegetables.) The wait was worth it though as my primadonna chicken turned out to be winner for the night. Runner-up honors go to the salad which was surprisingly yummy considering it was pre-packed from the grocery store. In its case, cheating did pay I must say.

Now, my guinea pigs (top photo, clockwise: friends Rosene and Irma, daughter Indie, hubby Nubbin) showed signs of enjoying the food. So much so that the lone leg part above, the leftover salad and the bunch of bananas together was the only dinner I managed to serve Nubs' bestfriend Julien who came in late. We honestly thought he wasn't coming!

No matter, Julien like our two female guests seemed very happy though. "Ang sarap ng food!" gushed Rosene before leaving. Feeling like the hostess with the mostest, I boldly invited them to yet another dinner somewhere in the very near future.

Next project: hotpot.

Raise the Maroon Lantern

2008-12-19T23:16:00.019+08:00

The Lantern Parade two nights ago was the last official event of the UP Centennial Celebration and it was a shame it was the only Centennial festivity I got to attend. As expected, it was the grandest I've ever witnessed. The crowd was at its biggest; the lanterns (and costumes), at their best; and the streets, at their brightest. The avenue fronting Quezon Hall was teeming with people. Students, of course. Children, my daughter Indie among them. Outsiders wanting to watch the spectacle. Vendors taking advantage of the occasion. Alumni like myself, my husband Nubs and my friends Georgia and Uncle, better known as Concon. Everything was fantastic. Except for the pictures we took. Bummer.

We were late. But that was okay since we made it just it time to see the beautiful angels of Babaylan in their sky-high heels and skimpy outfits. Nubs couldn't resist clicking at the most curvaceous in the group. Too bad our conjugal Nikon was at the repair shop and we had to make do with my old one and its frustrating shutter speed. And we shouldn't have switched the poor thing to "night mode" when there was no tripod at hand. Naturally, our pics turned out blurred, grainy, or both which was just great.

The hall of famer that was FA (College of Fine Arts) came in last. No one could have done the Carnival theme better. From the ticket booth to the umbrellas to the upside down people to the grotesque characters, it was all so superb. Dora the Explorer in the mouth of a crocodile was a bit off though as far as little Indie was concerned. Apparently, she didn't like seeing her favorite treated so badly and was in a semi-sour mood thereafter.

The night was capped with a grand fireworks display. A cool hundred grand burned there was Georgia's calculation. Yeah, maybe. It looked anything but cheap, especially the finale shower which my lowly camera just couldn't capture. Arrgh!

Beating the Holiday Rush

2008-12-05T20:17:00.018+08:00

'Tis the season of giving. The list is long. The lines at the malls are longer. The holidays can indeed be a pain at times.

But not to me.

What I have been doing for the last several years is to make my Christmas list as soon as the New Year kicks off. I have around 80 names there. Mostly family and friends. Plus inaanaks. Almost all names are staples. With a few additions when balikbayan relatives are home for the holidays. And one or two taken off the list when a family member passes away.

The best time to start your Christmas shopping is during end-of-season sales that all happen early January. You get to purchase nice presents at half the price if you're lucky. For my young recipients, I almost always buy from Bayo and Big & Small Co. Then there are mid-year sales. There are great finds at Debenhams, Rustan's, even Zara sometimes. The trick is to go when the sale period is almost over and markdowns can go up to 70% off. I gift-hunt in between sale seasons in Greenhills, Dapitan Arcade, Shoemart, Crossings, Toy Kingdom and others. Then there's the big Podium sale first week of October and this is where I shop for the senior citizens in the list, particularly in Living Well. This is usually my last stop for the year.

Come December, all I have to do is take out my shopping bags, wrappers, ribbons, gift tags. And it's a wrap.

A New Dapitan

2008-12-02T23:13:00.023+08:00

Along a nondescript road with a name made familiar by virtue of its similarity to Rizal's place of exile in Zamboanga and made famous by its proximity to Manila's oldest university is an equally nondescript structure bearing the name of the street where it stands. Dapitan Arcade is the place to go for the most wonderful bargains and finds. From ceramic export overruns. To native crafts, also overruns. And a whole lot of other exciting things.

Dapitan Arcade is in the corner of Dapitan and Kanlaon Streets, at some point where Quezon City and Manila meet. It is a small palengke-like building during the first three quarters of the year that extends into a mini-street market from October onwards. We run to this shopping haven whenever balikbayan relatives are here and we need pretty Pinoy-ish stuff to give them as send-off presents. We do part of our Christmas shopping there, but long before the Holiday crowds come like as early as summer.

Anyone who’s into country decors will love Dapitan. I’m not but I usually buy stuff for my sister Odie who’s into these things. Among these are a lovely tin watering can that my sister now uses as a flower holder, little ceramic tiles that can be used as wall accents and assorted ceramic bowls, plates, etc. There are also wicker baskets of all shapes and sizes—for bread and pastries, CDs, dirty clothes and even pet dogs—with prices ranging from 20 to 350 pesos only. China goods also abound and they cost less here than in Beijing because these might have originated from Shenzhen.

Among our worthy finds is a pair of scarecrows that we tie to the gate of our Balayan home every Halloween for only 100 pesos each. There's also this tall cylindrical clay vase that I haggled down to 200 pesos. And cool plastic coasters at 5 pieces for Php100. Dapitan has already contributed 3 lamps to Nubs' collection. We have scored quite a number of Christmas ornaments during the few years that we've been frequenting the place. Our favorite buy is a large round capiz shade that we converted into a candle holder that we got for 70 pesos, would you believe? Prices are good at all times. I never had to part with a Ninoy for any single purchase.

No wonder even rich matrons flock to Dapitan. They usually wear wide-brimmed hats over their heads and huge sunglasses over their eyes. The place though has no attraction whatsoever for little kids like my Indie. Everytime we go there, she refuses to get off the car, always exclaiming that it's not a mall. Of course, it's not. Otherwise, everything won't be soooo cheap.

Junior Stylist

2008-11-19T23:14:00.012+08:00

They are Indie's toys-of-the-moment. She puts them in a bag and wherever she goes, they go. At home, she plays dress up with them, never mind if not a single one of them looks the least bit like Barbie. And so it's Styling 101 morning and night for the cast of Madagascar...

Day Wear
Evening Wear

The Naked Truth

2008-11-12T12:04:00.002+08:00

My husband Nubs was about to slip into his boxers when little Indie came bursting into the room and got the biggest shock of her young life — the sight of her father in his naked un-glory.

And —

"Papa has a tail! He's a monkey! A big monkey!"

A is for...

2008-11-08T20:33:00.011+08:00

INDIE : Inay, A is for—

LOLA : Apple.

INDIE : Ant!

LOLA : Airplane.

INDIE : Alligator!

LOLA : Axe.

INDIE : Apricot!

LOLA : (Long pause to think of easy A-words for 3 year-old Indie's benefit.)

INDIE : Auroraaaaaa!!!!!!!

Aurora is her Lola's first name...

In Black and White

2008-11-05T22:02:00.059+08:00

A tide of euphoria is sweeping across the globe with Obama's victory. But I couldn't care less. Not because I'm pro-McCain. Not because I'm anti-Black. But simply because whoever ends up occupying the Oval Office really has nothing to do with us, us citizens of this poor republic. Let's face it, with the Cold War over and the bases long gone, we're just a tiny speck on the map for any US President to give us the time of day. While the most powerful man on earth switches faces every four or eight years, the consequent changes hardly ever have any impact on our Third World lives. Obama might just put an end to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. He might just resurrect his country's economy and that of the rest of the world. But even if these do happen, we little brown Americans are certain to be just as worse off as before. And we would be fools to think otherwise.

Oh, if there's anything I'm glad about Obama's triumph, it's the fact that the American people have risen above the stigma of racism. Martin Luther King should have lived to see this day.

Just a thought — newly elected American President Barrack Obama won by 7 million votes. American Idol David Cook won by 12 million. Like I said, just a thought...

———————

P.S. The morning after I posted this entry which was last morning, a quick look at the Inquirer told me that President-elect Obama was too busy to take our li'l President's congratulatory call. I should have warned her or maybe she should have read this blog. Tsk. Tsk.

* Photos from Yahoo.

Sick of My Sickness

2008-10-31T00:58:00.017+08:00

Hyperthyroidism, according to my doctor, is caused by stress mainly. Looking back now, it makes sense that I had it when my father was battling with cancer and, subsequently, lost it.

There was a time when I stayed with my ailing father for a few days at the hospital and I came home feeling ill myself. I couldn’t get out of bed for more than a week. I had the flu (yes, for the first time in my life), had a splitting headache that didn’t leave me until the ninth day and generally felt weak all over. I was no hypochondriac. But I was convinced there was something terribly wrong with my body.

And so I was off to a neighborhood clinic to get my blood pressure checked. It was normal. Then there was this eye doctor who made me do this costly periphery test and made me wear a pair of new eyeglasses. Nothing there. Then I consulted an EENT specialist as there was a constant buzzing in my right ear. I had a hearing exam and a few more tests. Again, nothing. It was the same doctor who, upon inspecting my throat on my next visit and finding it bigger than usual, recommended that I get a test for thyroid problems. With results in hand, I went straight to an endocrinologist who finally confirmed that I was sick with hyperthyroidism.

Before my bout with hyperthyroidism at 125 lbs., May 2006

Sick with hyperthyroidism at 105 lbs., September 2006

So without having to undergo these needless tests and without unnecessarily parting with quite a hefty sum, how do you know if you’re afflicted with this particular disease?

For me, the first indicator was weight loss which should have been a good thing except that it wasn’t since it was brought about by some form of illness.
My hands, suddenly, had a life of their own and I couldn’t stop them from trembling. This was especially evident in my handwriting.
I was always feeling weak and tired which was weird for a hyperactive person like me.
I couldn’t do anything without panting like a dog in the end. Plus, I would have palpitations that would sometimes make my chest hurt a little.
My skin was so dry “you could actually write the word dry right on your hand”. (Vaseline or Jergens?)
My hair was falling at an unbelievable rate it made me panic. There was lots on my pillow, on the floor, in the bathroom. Everywhere.
I had to make frequent trips to the bathroom which I guess partly accounted for the weight loss.
My mood swings were becoming more frequent. And no symptom could be worse as far as my poor husband was concerned.

So how did I get cured?

I took an anti-thyroid agent, the dose of which was gradually decreased as I got better.
I took steroids for about three months for my thickening throat.
I abstained from sugar for a month so that my limbs won’t go numb. But this was more preventive than therapeutic. And this, I must say, was the hardest part.

Is it a serious condition, you may ask.

Not so much. But if left untreated, hyperthyroidism could lead to heart failure or, worse, thyroid storm that may cause coma or death.
Yes. If you do not want an unsightly scar on your neck.
Absolutely. If you have enough vanity in your make-up not to want to look like you came straight from Halloween, bone-thin with eyes that would make anyone think they were about to fall off their sockets.

Now, my thyroid problem is back — for reasons I have yet to know — though not as bad as before since I have become quite an expert at detection. But still, I hate having to stay away from sweets. I hate queuing at the drugstore for my medicines. And having to come back again and again to my doctor who has over 30 patients waiting in line each time — God, that's what I hate the most.

I See Dead People

2008-10-28T12:40:00.001+08:00

Yes, I know it's a famous line from a movie but my experiences with the unknown are anything but reel. Well, not really unknown. After all I know these people, er, souls I mean.

My very first sighting was way back when I was still a college kid who slept on a big bed with my sister beside me. It happened sometime between midnight and 4 in the morning. I woke up with a start for no apparent reason. And there standing on the foot of the bed was an old Spanish-looking lolo with white thinning hair wearing dark-rimmed glasses, black knit cardigan over a pair of dark carsonsillos. He was enveloped in brilliant white light and he was looking straight at me with a benevolent smile. Of course, I did not smile back! How could I? I hurriedly put my blanket over my head and moved a little too close to my snoring sister. It was a wonder I did not let out a scream at all.

By morning, I had forgotten all about it and was only reminded of it when my sister complained about my cramming into her in the wee hours of the morning. Oh yes I said, I saw a ghost but had no idea who it was. So I described the apparition and she promptly said it was Mamay, our paternal grandfather. Yeah, that was him all right. I was only 4 years old when he died so I did not recognize him when he appeared before me. And wait, that day was his death anniversary!

Another sighting was right after I gave birth to Indie in the room where I was confined at St. Luke's. You see my old maid aunt, whom we fondly called Ate, passed away just 20 days before. She was like a second mother to me and my sisters. And I was sure she would have wanted to see her new apo and take care of me after labor. I saw her at the door smiling a happy smile. She asked if she could visit me and I readily said yes. So she glided (yes glided, as if she were on roller blades!) to the foot of the bed and stayed there, forever smiling, until I fell into a deep sleep.

The last was Christmas of 2007. It was our second without my father and I just thought I missed him. I remember saying it aloud, not for anything. But maybe somehow he heard me. Because as I was sitting somewhere in the dining room in our Batangas home, I saw him walking from my mother's bedroom to the living room and then poof! he was gone. He was my father so I wasn't the least bit scared. What struck me was the clarity of the vision, not hazy at all. He was wearing his favorite Christmas outfit of red shirt and white shorts. He did not move nor act in a ghostly kind of way. It was like he was alive, so alive that for a moment I forgot he was already dead.

There were other encounters with strange souls but I'd rather not go into these. That would be too creepy, even for Halloween.

P.S. When Indie saw Ate's picture, she said she knows her and she has seen her already...

Project Run Away

2008-10-26T15:20:00.018+08:00

One afternoon at home...

INDIE : Mommy, I want to go home—

ME : You're home baby.

INDIE : No, I want to go home to Balayan.

ME : Why?

INDIE : I want to go home to Inay's house. I want to sleep there. I don't like na here.

ME : Why? Are you not happy here?

INDIE : (Nods her head emphatically.)

ME : Why? Tell Mommy.

INDIE : Because Papa is mad at me.

Today's generation is far more advanced than ours it seems. When it occurred to me to run away from home, I was a teenager with angst in my heart. And here's my little girl, sans angst — I would like to believe — but already with big plans of leaving home. At the very young age of three.

Wannabes 2010

2008-10-19T16:41:00.053+08:00

Already, they are forcing their way into our consciousness. Invading all forms of mass media. Imposing their presence anywhere we care to look or listen. They are 2010's presidentiables. Or so they would like to believe. Or so they would have us believe.

Ideally, a presidentiable should be someone who has the ability required of a President as opposed to someone who has the ability to run for President by virtue of economic power, assumed popularity, unparalleled ambition or just plain greed. Come to think of it, it is actually rare to have somebody among those seeking the presidency who is really capable of doing the job.

Elections, Philippine style, are more like circuses, taken seriously only by those in the running who sing and dance to an electorate that appears to be in need of entertainment rather than leadership. A candidate's qualifications are the least important criterion in a contest where the country's fate hangs in the balance. Anyone can make a go for Malacanang. Crooks. Movie stars. Shameless turncoats. Human rights violators. Anyone.

Among the current crop of circus players, is there anybody worthy of being called a presidentiable and President later on? Villar? Lacson? BF? Chiz? Loren? Noli? Erap? (Oh please, not again!) Mar Roxas?

Now, there's someone I can believe in. Mar stands out from the lot precisely because he has chosen not to join the ranks of the clowns. He is no trapo — does not talk, act nor think like one. His person inspires trust and his name is, thank goodness, corruption scandal-free. He is both intelligent and well-educated. And unlike others who possess the same, he uses these in the conduct of his public duties. Without pretending to look or speak like he's masa given his elitist background, he has actually done a lot to promote the interest of the much-used and -abused masses. Mar is qualified, most definitely. Perhaps more than qualified for an office that has lost its dignity and promise.

I'm wary of the Korina factor though. That is, supposing the Senator marries her of course. You see, to vote for one candidate is to vote for his/her spouse. Think Ferdie and Meldy. Think GMA and FG. Conjugal dictatorship. Conjugal thievery. Conjugal whatever.

Korina notwithstanding, I will go for Mar (with the silent hope that he dumps her in due time!). Yes, Mar Roxas. Over Villar. Over Loren. Over BF. Over anyone scrambling to be the next leader of this hopeless country.

The road to 2010 is in place. And in the mad race for the highest — not to mention most lucrative — position in the land, the presidentiables are bound to resort to crazy schemes and costly antics to win votes. The stakes are high as always.

But first they must make sure that elections are indeed going to happen....

All I Really Need to Know I Did Not Learn in Kindergarten

2008-10-08T16:15:00.050+08:00

With due respect to Mr. Fulghum, of course. As far as I'm concerned, significant life lessons are those that I grasped, not from the early years before grade school, but from the second half of my 38 years in this world.

Do not confuse spirituality with religiosity. The former can stand without the latter.
Laugh. The louder the better.
Conventions are made to be broken away from.
It is of utmost importance to have a mind of your own.
Your present actions cannot forever be reactions to whatever wrongs you had to suffer in the past. Likewise, you have to stop seeing yourself as a victim.
Kindness is a virtue that should be shown to others as well as the self.
Walls are best built around homes, not around your person. If you know what I mean.
Anger is an ugly feeling. But people who make you angry are way uglier. Haha.
Never stay angry for long with people who matter. You are sure to regret it one day.
Forgive and forget is a fallacy. Otherwise, how will you ever learn?
There will always be people who are unhealthy for you. Let them go. And when they come knocking on your door, make sure it is locked.
Get out of your parents' sphere of influence as early as possible. It is a strain to live with someone who is still there.
Taking responsibility for anyone or anything is key to growing up.
When you're feeling tired, rest. Take a breather. Disappear.
Excess baggage is bound to pull you down. Unload.
Being jaded is a curse. Don't be.
Fighting for what you believe in may not always turn out all right.
Knowing when something or someone is not worth it is crucial at all points in your life.
There are times when it is easier to walk away than to stay.
The ego can be your worst enemy.
When your world is falling apart, a change in perspective is in order.
Self-respect is essential to survival.
Happiness is not a product of the mind. It is gone the moment you rationalize it.
Money is not everything. But never forget that man lives, first and foremost, on bread.
Time is the most precious commodity in the universe. And, yes, it cannot be bought, especially if you're not filthy rich.
Save your favorite books. They can be worthy companions in old age.
The future is best viewed with an open mind.
Girl bonding — and bonding with male friends — is necessary for sanity's sake. At least once every quarter, please.
The truth hurts most of the time. Be prepared not to tell people you care about if they are not ready for it.
Hasty decisions more often than not lead to difficult situations. Caution is not a bad thing, you know.
Expectations can ruin relationships. Keep them moderate.
Even the smartest of women can be fools for love. Just stay smart.
It is better to give than to receive. Who cares if it's the corniest line on earth?
The principle of non-attachment becomes harder to apply once you bring a child into the world.
Parenting is all about unconditional love. Period.
To have someone to care for, like a child born from you, is life's ultimate blessing.
Take every effort to be thankful. For everything.
There are more lessons to come as you gain years and wisdom. Be open.

Quite a long list actually. But then again what you know is only as good as what you practice. And this is where the real challenge lies.

Hitting 40

2008-10-04T15:36:00.031+08:00

I've always thought 40 was old. I mean that was how I saw it when I was in my teens. But here I am now, light years away from teenage-hood and but a mere 2 years to 40.

No, 40 is not old. Not at all. While it seems people you come across with are getting younger and younger, one cannot discount the fact that there are still a lot of people a lot older than you are. At this age, one can still do many things. Launch a new career. Move to another country. Switch faiths. Fall in love again. A lot of better things to do. Other than obsessing about looking younger.

Yes, younger. Simply because today's women, poor us, are bombarded with a steady stream of propaganda that shuns aging and the wrinkles and marks that come alongside it. (Talk about emancipation of the female species!) "It's okay to be 40 as long as you look 30," goes a line from a TV ad. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Is it not okay to be 40 if you look it? Or is it not okay to be 40 per se?

What in the world is wrong with 40? Frankly, I don't see any reason to fuss about turning 40 or 50 or 60 for that matter. Aging is a natural process that comes hand in hand with living. Only the dead stop getting older, right?

Okay, if it's the looks department you're worried about — sure, you've got a point. But hey, one doesn't have to take this age-defying business a little too seriously. Your costly cream erases one line on your forehead, another one manifests itself. No overpriced high-tech concoction can ever stop the hands of time, no matter what.

And the good news, these brand campaigns are totally missing something. Like, it's not impossible to be beautiful even if you look your age. Lines, crow's feet, dark spots and all.

Because when you're a little older — and yes, wiser — beauty ceases to be skin deep. It starts to emanate from within. And please, I'm not trying to be anything here. It's just that, when you're 40, you're no longer a girl, obviously. So it's not about pretty-ness anymore. It's all about character. Substance.

So what if your face is unmarked by age if you haven't made a single mark in anybody's life? So what if you take good care of your skin if you haven't cared for anyone other than yourself?

Come on.

Lolo's Girl

2008-10-02T14:40:00.026+08:00

They say parents show grandchildren the love that they are unable to demonstrate to their children. I think the reverse is true as well.

Tatay, my father, passed away when Indie was barely 16 months old. And up to now, she remembers him as a grown up never forgets a loved one long gone.

I don't know but as soon as Indie developed preferences for people and objects, Tatay became her instant favorite. She would grin from cheek to cheek whenever her lolo was around. Perhaps because he was a bit Dolphy-like, a comedic character who saw humor in everything. When Tatay played silly baby games with her, she would squeal and clap her hands in delight as if she was having the time of her young life. It came as no surprise then that the second word Indie spoke, next to mama, was tata.

When Indie had a McDonald's party for her first birthday, Tatay traveled all the way from Batangas even if he was just recovering from a chemotherapy cycle that almost killed him. (Upon watching the party video a few weeks ago, Indie said, "Look mommy, Tatay went to McDonald's. He gave me a gift then he went to heaven.")

Two months after, Tatay's cancer had gone up to his brain and there were days when his legs and arms would hurt so badly no one could touch them. Even so he would make a huge effort to clap his hands when Indie was there for the sole purpose of making her laugh. Just days before he breathed his last, I remember Indie crawling on his bed to kiss his hand and Tatay struggled, aching limbs and all, to raise his hand and bestow his last blessings on his youngest apo.

________

It pains me to write this but I know I have to. So that Indie may one day read this when she's a lot older and remember that there was once an old boy who loved her dearly. Her Tatay, her mother's father, whom she showered with all the affection her little heart could muster.

The Beatles Bug

2008-10-01T14:28:00.019+08:00

My husband Nubs and I finally get to watch Across the Universe. Yes, I know we're almost a year late. But hey, this isn't about the movie.

Little Indie wakes up past 12 midnight as Across the Universe runs about halfway on our dvd player. She does not go back to sleep until closing credits.

The next morning, she's humming a familiar tune then... "Come together / right now / over me." A smile spreads across my face. I think she likes the movie just as much as we do. In the afternoon after her daily nap, father, mother and daughter — upon the daughter's request — sit in front of the TV for another viewing of the family's newest favorite film.

These days, Indie spends a great part of her waking hours listening to the movie soundtrack, 1 (a compilation of the Beatles' number 1 hits) and Bugs & Friends Sing the Beatles. There are four songs she tends to play again and again — Helter Skelter, It Won't Be Long, With A Little Help From My Friends, Come Together. I guess it's safe to assume that these are the ones she likes best. Soon she masters a few lines, especially choruses. And it occurs to me, it's not the movie she's really crazy about. It's the songs.

It's the Beatles.

Three-year old Indie may very well be the youngest Beatles fan. But then again, maybe not.

______

By the way, Indie's mommy is into Beatles music while her daddy is a hard core Beatles-John Lennon fanatic. And they both dig Across the Universe.

22 Days in Beijing, Part 4

2008-09-25T23:08:00.099+08:00

Day 16. We were on the road by 7:30 in the morning riding a rented sedan driven by a pleasant Chinese gentleman who spoke very little English. Monday traffic going out of the city was at snail's pace. First we made a stop at the Olympic Village where there was a lot of construction work going on. It was so hazy out there it was hard to tell if it was fog or smog or maybe both. Of course, we did the tourist thing and took pictures with the awesome Bird's Nest, site of the Opening Ceremony, as backdrop. Too bad the Aquatics Center was closed for viewing that day.

The Bird's Nest under construction

The Great Wall Badaling Pass was 55 miles north of Beijing and it took us roughly 2 hours to get there. We had to pay a small fee for entrance tickets which was more than fair for the sights we were about to behold. There was a multitude of tourists but that was easy to ignore considering that we were about to see one of the seven wonders of the world. The Great Wall snaked through the landscape under a dramatic cover of morning mist. It was breathtaking. Unlike her Lolo who chose to be left behind, Indie — as if sensing the importance of her surroundings — climbed with us and refused to be carried. The view was more magnificent from high up the wall. But at some point, I felt a flash of vertigo maybe from standing on a sharp incline. Twink and Nubs felt it too. It was time to go down.

Buying our tickets

Great Wall was highly commercialized, even a little Westernized

The first few steps

Souvenir shot

Trooper Indie climbed like a big girl

The old boy chose to stay behind after hearing the story
of an elderly Filipino who had a heart attack while attempting to climb

Making progress, woohoo!

Indie had milk to recharge

The climb down

From middle ground, we moved further down to a bear zoo. It was a long tiresome walk for Indie's benefit but well worth it since she enjoyed watching the bears so much. There were mini vans that offered to drive tourists back to entry point at exorbitant rates. And rode a van we did!

Taking a break before proceeding to the bear zoo

The bears were cute but fearsome

The van ride to entry point

Lunch was at a dowdy restaurant fronting the entrance of the Great Wall, where the Judge and the driver waited for us. On the table, Beijing-style fare lie ready for consumption. I looked at the three large plates of strange dishes doubtfully and my eyes settled on the one farthest away from me. Strips of bacon swam in a saucy pool of an unappetizing orange color. But I was starving so what the heck. I couldn't believe it was actually delicious. Even Indie liked it.

Smile before you eat

Full and ready to go

Soon we were off to the Summer Palace which, as its name implies, was used as a summer residence by China's imperial rulers. Upon entering, we were greeted by a spectacular panorama of the man-made Kunming Lake and the dragon-decked Chinese boats moving slowly through its waters. We could not see across the lake though for the view was hindered by a thick fog that accompanied the cold weather. Going to Nanhu Island, we walked on the picturesque Seventeen-Arch Bridge. The halls in the small island were under repair and closed for public viewing. Just as we were on our way back from the bridge, there was a sudden downpour so we ran to the exit and into the car. We were not able to finish the tour!

Entrance to the Summer Palace

Kunming Lake and a Chinese boat

Father and daughter

Misty Seventeen-Arch Bridge

The bridge from Nanhu Island

The drive back was the worst bumper-to-bumper traffic we saw in our host city. What a way to cap a long day!

Day 17. Feeling enriched from yesterday's cultural field trip, we immediately went right back to our commercial exploits, setting off to conquer the Ladies Market as early as mid-morning. The goods, particularly the clothes, were a bit too tacky for my taste so I did not buy any. What a waste coming all the way here! But wait, on the way out was a small branded overruns shop that was on sale. And the day was saved.

The stroller was laden with child and finds

We had lunch at a Korean fastfood joint. Food wasn't bad at all. Indie, who would sing between bites, caught the attention of a group of pretty Chinese girls who entertained themselves by watching our little girl's every move. After some time, we crossed the street to browse a row of craft and knickknack stores than headed home.

Look at Indie's mess

The pretty girl in the background and her friends watched Indie as if in a show

Browsing through shops fronting the Ladies Market

Cab home

Before dinner, we brought Indie to the playground where she found a playmate in a little girl named Amber. Her mom and I exchanged small talk and I was surprised she spoke very good English which was certainly not the norm anywhere in China. I later learned mother and daughter were Singaporeans who were there because the father was assigned in Beijing. She seemed happy to meet someone who knew her language and disappointed to find out that we were not Fuli Cheung residents but tourists about to leave in a few days.

Indie loved slides

Indie and Amber

Happy famileh

Day 18. Nubs left early for a job interview somewhere in the Winterless Hotel area, after which we met up with him in an upscale mall much like Greenbelt 4 or 5. We had lunch at the food court that was very different from what we have here, with interiors and furnishings good enough for our fine dining establishments.

We took the subway to Haidian district, quite far from Chaoyang District where we were staying, for more shopping. We went to 2 malls, both Shoppesville-like in appearance and went home with 3 ridiculously large plastic bags of purchases.

Later, I asked Nubs how the interview went. He said they didn't pay well and my hopes of living in the city of fabulous finds were quashed a little too soon.

Day 19. The morning, with the sun partially hidden by clouds, was perfect for a Temple of Heaven visit. There was a modest sum we had to pay for 2 tickets, one for entrance to the park and another, to the temple itself. The garden was vast and there was a lot of walking needed. It was not tiring though because, apart from the cool weather, there was beauty everywhere we looked — towering century-old trees amid graceful landscaping, an old musician playing an unfamiliar Chinese instrument, shutter-worthy glimpses of the world famous hall at varying angles. We went beyond smaller replicas of Forbidden City's enormous gates to a courtyard from where we had an excellent view of the majestic Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests against the blue sky. We climbed the stairs of marble stones to the circular structure. The inside was cordoned off but we could see its impressive decorations from where we stood. Indie was game the whole time but got a bit tired so we cut the tour short. We were already happy with what we had seen anyway.

On the way to the famous temple

Indie ran as if she was in a playground

Interior shot of the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests

The detailing was superb and guess what...

...not a single nail was used to build the awe-inspiring structure

The free map was souvenir-worthy

Milk break against the bloody red walls

After lunch, we were off to the Immigration office to claim our visas. It was quick and hassle-free until the misfortune that befell me. I was unable to hold my bladder any longer and had to face the ugliest thing about China. The squat toilet. There was an icky puddle from the door leading to the cubicles and the stink had enough strength to make anyone faint. But then again, what could be worse than falling on your back on a wet floor in a revolting toilet exactly like the one I was in? I'm proud to say, I survived. (If you're wondering how I side-stepped going to the toilet for more than 2 weeks already, the secret was depriving myself of water when we were out and taking it only in the comforts of the home. Of course, I'm not recommending this to anyone.)

Our new visas

After a horrifying experience, we went someplace I was most comfortable at, a mall. This quaint spot in Ritan was a cluster of 3 bi-level structures of branded overrun stores among others. Shopping was fantastic here as can be gleaned from the number of bags in our hands when we came out of the building.

Warren and Twink treated us to dinner on the roof deck of an expensive-looking restaurant also in Ritan. Everybody, Indie included, made a go for the night's special. Except me. I hated onions so I sampled the duck but not the Peking duck. Anyway, this was made by lining a pita-like wrapper with onions, sauce and duck of course. (Can't remember the other stuffings though.) Everyone looked happy with the food. Yes, even me. The duck was tender and very tasty indeed.

On our way to dinner

As if she could read already!

Taking time to order

Nub sampling the Peking duck

It was videoke night so we stopped at a small expat grocery to get Tsingtao Beer, wine, cheese and Coke Light for the non-drinker that was me. Warren was blessed with a good singing voice and the Judge was a revelation. As for Twink, Nubs and me, let's just say we did our best. We took turns with the microphone and I was enjoying myself. Until the old boy sang "My Way". It was my late father's all-time favorite and it was his voice that I was hearing. I quietly left the room and cried for a long time.

Singers for a night

Day 20. After breakfast, we moved the mounting pile of shopping bags of clothes, shoes, handbags, Ikea wares, Chinese souvenirs, etc. from our bedroom to the living room. It was time to pack. We could hear Indie and the Wonder Friends singing, "What's gonna work, team work," the unofficial theme song of this trip. And so we filled one large suitcase then another. Then 2 oversize duffel bags. Then a big balikbayan box. Still, lots of stuff remained on the floor. Nubs rushed to the nearby post office to buy 2 more medium-sized boxes. And so on to another round of packing until, finally, the floor was clear. It was 5 o'clock pm.

After an hour, we went back to The Place mall where Twink bought Indie a pair of Crocs, a farewell present. By the way, Crocs were cheaper here by Php300. Indie got a chance to see the LED-screen ceiling this time.

Watching intently

Then we moved to Carrefour to buy groceries to bring home—cheese, chips, dried dates and many others. Dinner was at KFC. On the ride home, we passed by a very entrepreneurial Chinese man who offered his services as a barber to any willing pedestrian. Too bad I wasn't able to video the scene.

Ice cream at Carrefour

Wine and cheese till 3am

Day 21. Our last day in Beijing was spent in a daze. First, the frame shop. Then last minute shopping from one place to another. We found more souvenirs in a place much like Hongquiao Market. Nubs and I wanted to go to a Shanghai Tang store but it was out of the way so Warren brought us to Remito instead. We were so lucky to chance upon a pair of delicate salt and pepper shakers of bone china to add to our collection. Then we went back to the Holiday Inn overrun store. Among my purchases, the I'm-not-a-plastic-bag tote which I passed up on last time we were there and a pair of Nine West heels which I was forced to sell back home because they were a little too tight on my toes.

Nub's painting now framed

Outside the Hongquiao-like building

Remito behind us

Our farewell Beijing dinner was hot pot. While waiting for our food, a half-naked man emerged from one of the private rooms and it was such a funny sight I had to cover my mouth to stifle a laugh. That should be the last shocker of this 22-day trip. Then dinner was served. We were each given a simmering metal pot of stock. On the lazy susan were several choices of dishes such as leafy vegetables, thinly-sliced beef, squid balls, quail eggs, etc. The stock was lacking in taste, to think everything depended on it. I must say, Twink's hot pot was a lot better. Of course, it was a new experience, given that we were in an authentic, elaborately designed Chinese hot pot restaurant.

Table setting was not among their talents

Picking vegetables to cook in the pot

Indie posing in front of a wall art within the resto

Outside the hot pot place

We took souvenir shots of our home of 22 days, packed our personal effects in our handcarry and called it a night, ready for our 11 am flight.

Clockwise: underground parking, building entrance from
parking area, elevator, apartment number on the door

Day 22. We were up and about by 6 o'clock and were on our way to the airport by 8. We said our goodbyes at the lobby. Warren, had a diplomatic pass so he accompanied us inside, leaving Twink behind. And we were in for a surprise! Our baggage put together was more than 40 kilos overweight. We had to think fast or part with a large amount of cash. So we decided to leave the heavier box behind (Warren promised to send them over little by little through their friends). Still, 10 kilos excess! That was RMB70 per kilo for a total of RMB700. I was running short of yuans so Warren, thankfully, ran to the money changer. We paid around USD100. Before we knew it, our flight was being called. We were the last to board the plane. The half-naked man the night before was not the last shocker after all.

Riding the rented van to the airport

Last shot before we check-in

Our baggage excess papers

The flight was uneventful as expected. Among the passengers, there was an old man in a sour mood because some of his stuff had to be left behind due to a daughter-in-law with shopaholic tendencies. A man of almost forty who tried hard to stop himself from dozing off but failed. A 2-year old girl who refused to sleep for unknown reasons. A woman in her mid-thirties who was dead tired but was taking everything in. Still.

Indie busied herself while her papa slumbered

In 4 hours, Philippine Airlines PR359 was in Philippine soil. Already, Beijing felt remote and faraway. Our only connection, our luggage full of China goods that the customs official eyed with alertness and suspicion.

Indie still managed to pose

Conclusion. It was not hard at all to fall in love with Beijing. I fell for Shanghai once but got over it in a matter of days. I was not so sure about Beijing though, that city of charming contradictions—of rising skyscrapers amid tiled roofs below, of people who take a leap toward the future while clinging to the past.

Will I go back to Beijing? Yes. In spite of her ubiquitous smog, squat toilet and spitting male population. Yes, I shall return. To sit in a cafe by Houhai Lake. To drink a beer with Nubs in a Sanlutin bar. To watch an acrobatic show. To complete our unfinished Forbidden City tour. To see the Summer Palace in winter when the waters of Kunming Lake have turned to ice. To take shots of the Great Wall from a vantage point other than Badaling. Oh yes, I'm longing to go back.

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We'll always be grateful to Twink and Warren for being such generous hosts during that wonderful trip. And Indie should thank her Lolo for taking care of her plane ticket.